


Cabin Fever

by ribbitribbit



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chess, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Meditation, Mutual Pining, Sailing, Shore Leave
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:35:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28390272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ribbitribbit/pseuds/ribbitribbit
Summary: The Enterprise feels suffocating, and Kirk knows the way he feels isn’t normal—isn’t healthy.  McCoy assures him the shore leave will solve his issues, but things seem to get worse before they get better.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	Cabin Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Amanda, for putting up with my shit.

“So, you’re homesick.” Bones’ eyebrow quirked up in an unamused way, his hands on his hips. He sighed and took a last look at the medical readings from the physical exam. “We’ll be on Earth for shore leave in less than a week, Jim. I don’t see how this is exactly pressing.” 

Kirk took a deep breath. For as observant as he touted himself to be, Bones seemed to be missing the problem. This wasn’t some average melancholy. Kirk wasn’t the type to feel like this for no apparent reason. Sure, the occasional bout of sadness or mourning swept over him in the face of tragedy—who could forget the emotional agony that happened in the wake of Edith Keeler’s death—but whenever he felt grief he felt it for a reason. Kirk was starting to have a nagging thought that maybe something from Mevelaan’s air was causing lingering side effects on his mental state.

“It’s not homesickness. For God’s sake, I didn’t even live on Earth my whole life.” Kirk clasped his hands together, and stood from the red biobed with a swift movement. Despite his composure, he was all but panicking on the inside. They had faced a lifeform they’d never seen before, they had been to a planet the Federation had never identified before, they had breathed air that the scanners couldn’t get a proper read on, who knew what it might’ve done to him on a subconscious level. “Surely you’ve felt it. Ever since we beamed up from that planet, there’s this feeling of… lifelessness. And lethargy. Exhaustion and- Everything just feels so,” he pursed his lips as he thought of the word, “stagnant.”

Bones’ dismissive scoff was the sound Kirk had been dreading. “We’ll be on shore leave soon enough. I think you can soldier on until then.” The doctor glanced at his padd one last time before setting it down on his desk with a sense of finality, “No major injuries from that last mission, just that cut on your hand. Don’t apply any strain to it and you’ll be fine in time for the fourth.” There was a moment of silence until Bones realized that he didn’t explain his diagnosis—or a lack thereof—thoroughly enough for Kirk’s liking. “No one else from the landing party had any kind of lasting effects on their mental health from the planet alone. Ensign Charowsky had some issues but I would too if I saw my spouse eaten by a-”

“Thank you, Bones, I get it. Was Spock alright, too?”

“He was perfectly fine, otherwise I wouldn’t let him leave sickbay. Now go get some sleep. You need to get your mind off of,” he gave a vague gesture with his right hand, “whatever’s got you in this slump.” With a nod, Kirk was out and walking down the hall with haste.

Despite his best efforts to make the trek to his quarters as short-lived as possible, the halls felt much longer than usual. It was hard not to dwell on how grey everything was, and how the bright lights were so straining on the eyes, and how every door and every hallway was nearly identical to one another. Monotonous was an understatement.

Just as Kirk rounded the corner to his quarters, a familiar voice greeted him.

“Captain,” Spock approached him, hands neatly folded behind his back. Though his stature was calm, he looked slightly disconcerted. The smallest movement in his eyebrow, the tiniest flicker in his eye. The faintest recognition of worry on Spock was comparable to the most expressive, nail-biting anxiety in anyone else. There was something distinctly unnerving when Spock was outwardly concerned—in dire situations he was cool and collected, in every instance of risky situations and impossible odds he maintained his composure. He was the rock that Kirk clinged to when every odd was against them. Kirk’s mind was already racing to think about what Spock might’ve found out: tests in the science wing revealed that there was something in the air on Mevelaan, all those people on Mevelaan weren’t dead but instead had gone underground and scanners hadn’t picked them up at their altitude until now, the Aetteok on the planet’s surface lied about being the last of it’s kind… the list went on.

“Yes, Mr. Spock?” Kirk steadied himself for the news, whatever it may be.

“Do you still want to join me for chess tonight? Usually you’d be in the recreation room by now, and when you didn’t show up I became concerned.” 

How could Kirk forget what had become, at this point, a daily ritual?

“Of course, I’m always available for chess with you. I was just a little lost in thought after what McCoy told me in sickbay.” Kirk started to walk back down the hall, Spock by his side.

Spock’s eyes lingered on Kirk’s hand before returning to his face, severity and concern still apparent. “Which was?”

“Oh, I’m perfectly fine.” Kirk scrambled to find an excuse for why he forgot their chess match after a very normal checkup, “But I was just thinking about how long this little scratch is going to take to heal.” 

“Scratch is hardly an accurate term.”

“What else would you call it?” 

“A deep laceration. When the Aetteok attacked you, I was concerned you wouldn’t be able to use your left hand again.” 

“You were really worried about me, huh?” Kirk grinned. Spock glanced back at him, and Kirk didn’t miss the way the slightest smile pulled at his lips.

“I had every reason to be apprehensive about your wellbeing. You were risking your life to save the landing party.”

They made it to the rec room, and Spock stepped inside as soon as the doors swished open. Almost eagerly. Which was unusual, and Kirk couldn’t help but make a mental note of it; if Spock was acting just as oddly as Kirk was, there would be no denying that his hunch was right. That something in that air was causing lingering effects, even hours after exposure to it. 

Spock sat at the right side of the tridimensional chess board, expertly arranging the pieces into their proper starting position: two rooks on either end of the attack boards, two knights on either end of the defending board, and pawns where they needed to be. Kirk followed suit. He could’ve done this with his eyes closed, he was so used to their matches. The setup for the match was always the easiest part. There was no need for strategy or skill just yet. Just a moment to put the pieces into place. 

Despite how long-winded their matches could get, Kirk found himself faltering to keep up with the game. That nagging feeling was distracting him, that burdening of feeling that something was wrong. As much as he hoped that Spock wouldn’t notice, he didn’t miss the way Spock was trying to go easier on him as they played. Leaving his pawns open for taking without any sort of playable move for himself. Even despite going easy on him Spock would still, almost inevitably, win. That much was clear even if you weren’t trying to analyse his moves. 

“Jim,” Spock caught Kirk off guard, “after we conclude our game, I’m going to meditate in my quarters. Would you like to join me?”

“What? In your quarters?” For someone whose entire chess match had been nothing but lethargic, somehow Kirk managed to falter even more at the sudden invitation. “Are you feeling alright?”

Spock moved another pawn right in front of Kirk’s, seemingly letting him have it. “I’m fine, I just thought it would be a considerate gesture to invite you to participate in meditation with me. I find that it helps me feel at ease during stressful situations.”

“I’m not stressed.” Kirk took the pawn but watched as Spock decimated both of his rooks in one fell swoop. 

“Of course not,” both of them could tell the game was nearing an end as Spock and Kirk made small moves with the few chess pieces left on the board, “I was simply stating the benefits of meditation. Will you join me?”

“How could I decline such a logical offer?” Kirk grinned, but the expression faded into a frown as he was checkmated. “What time should I come over?” 

“I meditate at 2100 hours.”

“Should I wear something comfortable?”

“If it would help you meditate, yes.” Spock’s movements were precise as he put the chess pieces away. Every movement was calculated with a kind of grace that Kirk couldn’t imagine anyone else having when doing something as mundane as handling pawns and rooks. 

Kirk got up from his chair finally, “I’ll go back to my quarters until then, I suppose. See you soon.” With a nod, he made his way out of the rec room, and down the hall. Now he couldn’t tell which was worse: being poisoned into emotional misery, or trying to pretend like he knew how to meditate. 

🝮🝮🝮

Spock’s quarters were only a bathroom away, yet they were a new world entirely. Where Kirk had scientific books and manuals, Spock had shelves of literature—human and vulcan alike—meticulously placed in alphabetical order. Where Kirk had a dresser embellished with model starships on top, Spock had a small rug, a meditation lamp, and a spiraling potted plant, spoiled so much it could’ve been mistaken for one of Sulu’s. Even Spock’s chess board was different from Kirk’s. Instead of the traditional black and white tridimensional chess set, it was one of blue and transparent tiles. The differences were comforting, in a way. Usual. Not that Kirk had made it a habit of his to come into Spock’s quarters, but whenever their default spot for chess was taken, or they wanted to talk, this was where they went.

“I’ve always seen your meditation spot, but I’ve never seen you meditate.” Kirk was taking his time making his way to that corner of the room. Stalling for time. Spock was already sitting, eyes closed, on the right side of the mat. He didn’t look up at Kirk as he walked closer—that was the point of meditation, after all: uninterrupted focus. Still, it made Kirk wonder if he shouldn’t have worried as much as he did about the tank top he chose. 

“I feel that under normal circumstances, you would distract me.”

“Fair enough,” Kirk finally took his spot next to Spock, mimicking his cross-legged posture. He pushed his chest outward and straightened his back, letting his hands rest in front of him. Now all there was left to do was breathe, right? Which was easier said than done. Only a minute or so in and Kirk felt an anxious discontentment grip him again, gnawing at him. A kind of feeling that was simultaneously nagging him to do something about this and another telling him he couldn't, and maybe he’d always feel this burden. There was no rhyme or reason as to why he felt like this, unless it really was some kind of malevolent, toxic air from the last mission that was affecting his psyche.

“Jim,” Spock’s voice cut through the silent calm of the room. “If you’re finding it hard to meditate, you don’t have to.” Without looking, Spock could see through Kirk’s outward demeanor. Kirk was technically doing everything you needed to do to meditate: he had the right posture, he closed his eyes, he was breathing slowly and with intent, and yet… somehow Spock saw through it and knew that Kirk was all but relaxed. When Kirk broke his poise and opened his eyes, he was surprised to see Spock staring right at him. Right _into_ him. “I apologize, I should not have expected you to be able to meditate, especially considering your condition.”

“I don’t have a condition.” 

“Your hand,” Spock was looking right at the gash again, “that is the condition you have. You mentioned earlier that you were so lost in thought over the healing process of it that you forgot our match. I imagine you’re also contemplating that now. You were not meditating, but you were pretending as if you were.”

Kirk pursed his lips, “How did you know I wasn’t meditating?” Vulcans were telepaths, sure, but they were touch telepaths. Unless there was something else he didn't know.

“Your foot was bouncing.”

Oh.

Spock picked up the Vulcan meditation lamp and blew it out, causing the smoke to wither until it was gone into the air— he cut his own meditation short. “If I may ask, is there anything bothering you beyond your hand?”

Kirk couldn't lie to him. “Well, yes. There’s—I think something’s wrong with me. Something Bones couldn’t see because our technology only knows so much. On Mevelaan, do you think we could have inhaled some kind of chemical in the air?” Spock raised an eyebrow and gave the slightest tilt of his head. He hadn’t considered that, but maybe he had no need to consider it before. Maybe he wasn’t affected because he wasn't human. 

“I find that speculation to be unfounded. Our readings on the Mevelaan air suggested nothing out of the ordinary for a planet of its class.”

“But there must have been something there. Spock, I know that how I’m feeling is not normal.”

“How _are_ you feeling?”

“I feel,” he struggled to find the right word for a moment, “hopeless.” There was something almost calculative in Spock’s eyes as he looked at Kirk, as if he was trying to figure out just how to fix the situation. But before Spock could say anything, Kirk was already standing up and walking quickly towards the bathroom door, which slid open with a quick swish of pressurized air. “Thank you for trying to help me meditate, Spock. I’m”—running away from the situation—“tired.” 

And though they were only a bathroom away, Kirk’s quarters felt like a different, colder world.


End file.
